I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream.
At least, we tell ourselves it’s for ice cream, as we scream our lungs out at the unknowing, uncaring, impassive sky, voices filled with existencial dread, desperately and ultimately fruitlessly seeking something, anything, out there that might distract us from the looming fact that we’ve grown increasingly dissociated from one another, from ourselves, and from the world we’ve built...
We cannot face that this is why we scream. So we don’t.
“Yes,” we say, “yes, it’s simply ice cream for which we scream.”
Simply ice cream.
Ice cream is good…
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